Page 43 of To Serve a Laird
Iain knew he should have felt sorry for her, not been so eager to help, but he felt nothing—nothing at all.
“I will speak to him,” he answered.
Iain spent the rest of the day in dry, pointless conversation about the weather, the latest fashions, and the kind of books Iain would only read if he were absolutely desperate.
He offered to take Morag around the castle, but after showing her the portrait gallery and the Great Hall, she declared that she was fatigued from the journey and wanted to lie down for a while.
Iain gave a huge inward sigh of relief as he assigned a maidservant to take Morag to the room which had been hastily prepared for her.
Thank God,he thought. He practically sprinted to his room and ordered a cup of willow bark tea for the throbbing headache that was now beginning to attack him.
He sat on his bed and sipped the foul and bitter tea, wondering if it might be better to endure the pain rather than swallow the vile concoction. He forced it down, however, then covered his face with his hands, wondering if he should send for Claire.
Eventually, he decided that he would because he could not bear the thought of her pain at his betrayal. As it happened, however, Claire had decided not to wait for him.
After she had gathered her belongings, she strode to Iain’s chamber, passing several of her fellow servants on the way there. Some giggled and nudged each other and some merely stood back and let her pass, but if anyone got in her way, the momentum of her anger made her push them aside.
When she arrived outside his door, Claire did not pause to knock or collect her thoughts. She pushed the door open so hard that it slammed back against the wall, then shuddered on its hinges.
Iain, who was sitting at his desk, had been about to ring the bell to summon a maidservant to fetch Claire. He jumped in fright as he saw her storming into the room, her honey eyes blazing, beautiful face red and thunderous with rage.
Her back was ramrod-straight, and she almost looked like a soldier as she marched towards him. She stopped at his desk and deposited a little pile of books on it, then took out a small, jingling pouch and slammed it down beside them.
“I am buying my freedom,” she told him, trying and failing to keep her voice calm. “This is not quite enough, but the rest will be paid by Laird Cormac MacTavish. He is an honourable and honest man, and you will be fully recompensed.”
“No.” Iain jumped to his feet and rushed around the desk to grab Claire’s arm. “You are mine! You belong to me, and I am not letting you go!”
“I belong to no one but myself, certainly not you!” Claire cried, unaware that tears of fury were beginning to streak down her cheeks. “I have paid you half of what I owe you and the rest is on its way. Why do you need me when you have a wife? I’ll tell you why—because you are greedy and dishonourable, and I was just here, vulnerable and innocent. It must have been so satisfying, so easy for you. No doubt you have done it many times before.” She looked him up and down scornfully. “You area liar, my Laird. You promised you would never hurt me, but you did.”
She dashed tears furiously out of her eyes, then forced herself to look him straight in the eye. “I wish you and Lady Morag a long and happy life together. Goodbye, my Laird.”
She wrenched her arm free and dashed out of the door, slamming it behind her.
Iain stood staring at the wall for a moment, then, with an almighty roar, he hurled his whisky glass at the wall. It exploded into hundreds of pieces, in just the same way as his heart because Claire had just shattered it.
Iain was not a particularly devout man, but now he was praying for a miracle. He needed an angel to swoop down from heaven and rescue him. Morag and her father had been talking to him for well over an hour, and he would occasionally put in a polite word here and there, but in truth his mind was elsewhere—in fact it was miles away.
It was with Claire, of course. He was wondering what she was doing, what she was thinking about. How she must hate him!
Iain tried to imagine how he would feel if he were in her shoes. She had trusted him, and he had betrayed that trust. Had it been him in her place, would he not feel furious and humiliated?
Of course, he would, but now he was also absolutely ashamed of himself.
He had always thought of himself as an honourable man, but clearly he had grossly overestimated himself. He had to speak to her and make things right between them. There was nothing he could do about the marriage, but he could not let Claire gowithout at least apologising, lest she think he was some kind of monster who used women for his own pleasure then cast them aside. Yet, that was exactly what he had been forced to do to her.
Iain consoled himself with the notion that it was too late for Claire to leave, since darkness was already falling. He made an effort to finish his meal, but he ate mechanically, not really tasting the delicious slices of venison on his plate.
Morag was going on about the horses she had seen at one of the local horse fairs, and mentioned that her mare was old and would soon have to be put out to pasture.
“I think I will have to find a new steed to celebrate my new life,” she said, raising her eyebrows in a not-so-subtle hint. “Perhaps I will be given one as a wedding present.”
Iain forced a laugh. “I see,” he said. “Well, fortunately, I know some people who?—”
At that moment, however, he was interrupted by Agnes, who leaned over to speak to him. She looked deeply anxious, and since this was very unlike her, Iain was immediately concerned.
“M’Laird,” she said in a low voice. “Somethin’ serious has happened. Can I speak tae ye in private, please?”
“Of course.” Iain stood up and bowed to his guests, then politely excused himself.
